


Chapter 32 Redone

by brigitwritesstuff



Category: The Last of the Mohicans - James Fenimore Cooper
Genre: Adventure, Adventure & Romance, American History, Early American literature, F/M, Friendship, Literature, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-08-27 23:03:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16711699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brigitwritesstuff/pseuds/brigitwritesstuff
Summary: The ending to The Last of the Mohicans was not what I wanted, so now I've gotta do it all myself.





	1. Chapter 1

    The supporters of the maiden raised their ready tomahawks with the impious joy that fiends are thought to take in mischief, but Magua stayed the uplifted arms. The Huron chief, after casting the weapons he had wrested from his companions over the rock, drew his knife, and turned to his captive, with a look in which conflicting passions fiercely contended.

    “Woman,” he said, “chose; the wigwam or the knife of Le Subtil!”

    Cora regarded him not, but dropping on her knees, she raised her eyes and stretched her arms toward heaven, saying in a meek and yet confiding voice:

    “I am thine; do with me as thou seest best!”

    “Woman,” repeated Magua, hoarsely, and endeavoring in vain to catch a glance from her serene and beaming eye, “choose!”

    But Cora neither heard nor heeded his demand. The form of the Huron trembled in every fibre, and he raised his arm on high, but dropped it again with a bewildered air, like one who doubted. Once more he struggled with himself and lifted the keen weapon again; but just then a piercing cry was heard above them, and Uncas appeared, leaping frantically, from a fearful height, upon the ledge. Magua recoiled a step; and one of his assistants, profiting by the chance, attempted to sheath his own knife in the bosom of Cora.

    This henchmen’s try was futile. The lady, in a fight-or-flight moment, chose fight. She grabbed the assailant’s wrist and pushed with her entire weight, bringing the two of them to the ground.

    All screamed. The Hurons, The Delawares, the Mohicans, the whites, and the male combattant. But not Cora. She only growled and used her inferior muscles with a will never before seen by any present. Swift as the wind, she leapt over the man and straddled his stomach, holding him down with her weight. She profited by his shock and seized the hand holding the knife. In an instant, her fingers, nimble from years of women’s work, unpried his less trained ones from the handle.

    When the Huron warrior realized his weapon was gone, he pushed the lady from him. She was knocked down, but not out. Rolling from his reach, she scrambled back on her feet. Then the two were face-to-face.

    The man knew his physical advantage. He lunged at her. The force with which he flew, though, was only to his disadvantage. All the lady needed do was hold the blade with both hands and extend it to his quick approaching chest.

    His own blade was sheathed in his own breast, and Cora’s hands had been those to steady it there. It first felt to him like an impossibly hard punch, but when his eyes suffered to look down, his fate dawned on him. She watched his face the whole time, and did not blink when he spat blood onto her dress. She did not gasp as each beat of his fading heart spewed more blood from his chest onto her hands. She did not weep when his heavy body went limp. Rather, she pulled the knife from the corpse and turned to face her enemies.

    The battle had been paused in some degree while the crowd watched the maiden prove her strength. Once she gave a readied look to the rest, they were reminded of their purpose, and rival tribes clashed once more.

    Uncas attempted to launch himself at Magua, but he was intercepted by another henchman. The two grappled with one another, leaving Cora alone to deal with her kidnapper.

    Both stood dangerously close to one another, armed and ready. Bent knees and keen eyes. Not a flash of timidity showed in either dark countenance. They were deaf to any shouts from their compatriots. The warrior and maiden were equal in their spirits, and firm in this belief: either one or none of them could escape this battle.

    He charged her like a bull, and she evaded him like a bullfighter, letting him dash beyond her, tomahawk waving. He turned and they and faced one another once again, both looking for a moment of wavering confidence. There was none.

    “You are caught, Munro,” hissed Le Subtile. “Surrender. My offer stands.”

    “You must increase your sin sevenfold by killing me, treacherous Huron, if you are to see this family defeated. You must live with the warmth of a maiden’s blood on your unworthy hands.”

    Another impassioned lunge, and another artful avoidance. It were as if the two danced. Then they stood off once more.

“You will pay for your father’s wrongs!” He shouted, trying to use his rage to daunt her.

    It did not work. “Aye, I know I shall. I pay for his virtues in pride and his wrongs in shame.  As for my life, let it be doled for my own deeds, and thy life for thine!”

Now the lady made the first movement, which was mirrored by the chief. However, her flight was made in trickery, and she dodged his oncoming blows for the third and final time. As he threw his entire weight in what he’d thought would be her direction, she stuck out a leg and tripped him. His sinewy body fell to the dirt with a thump. In that same moment, Uncas killed his own combatant and was free of him to save the lady.

Neither Le Renard Subtile nor Le Cerf Agile were crafty nor swift enough to anticipate her action. With a fiery vengeance and a learned brutality, she staked the Huron knife into a Huron leg. The leg, she knew, was not the best way to kill someone. No, all she sought to do was make his hands release his weapons, which they did at the shock of this immense pain.

She picked up his tomahawk and placed one foot on his chest. With never before seen strength, she lifted it high over her head, over her curly black tresses, over the mountain, over the cliff, and over the entire earth. Every warrior, be he tall or short or muscular or thin, stood stiller than an oak and watched in awe. Time froze for a second. All eyes took a mental picture of the moment right before victory.

Then, the moment ended. The Huron didn’t have time to react. Her lovely, delicate arms bowed like reeds in a hurricane, plowing the axe into Magua’s neck.

Her whole body collapsed as the weapon descended, and she fell into the gore. Unmoving, she bathed in blood. Uncas leapt to her side and pulled her away from the nightmare. Her hands released the tomahawk. Her face showed no reaction.

Gunshots and yelling sounded in their ears. The last Hurons had either died or fled. Hawkeye, Chingachgook, Gamut, Hewyard, Alice, and the remaining Delawares gathered around to watch the end of the story.

“Cora, Cora!” Uncas cried, trying to get her attention. But her eyes were glazed over. She was not hearing him.

Only when Alice screamed bloody murder did she come to. Consciousness returned, and she scrambled to her feet and to her dear little sister. She tried to hug her, but the girl repulsed her, pointing to her dress and hands. Looking down, she realized she was soaked in fresh blood.

There was no hint of disgust or regret in her. Only inconvenience. A warrior wouldn’t be expected to pity the enemy, yet Cora is? No. She turned her head back to Magua’s corpse. Blood sputtered from his throat as if he had been trying to speak his way out of trouble one last time. The last of the monologues.

“My God!” Heyward shouted. He could barely look, and yet he couldn’t look away. “Cora! Are you hurt?”

She didn’t answer. Rather, she calmly walked over to the body and lifted the severed head into the air by the scalping tuft. The reeking flesh poured blood at her feet like water pours from the Glens. Alice screamed again, and Gamut gasped. Every eye looked on in horror. She extended the trophy to Uncas, who was the only one who dared to stand closer.

“This is yours,” she said.

These words hung for a long time. The entire group was at a standstill. Cora and Uncas did not break eye contact the whole time.

Stoic as ever, the young chief approached, hand outreached. He also took hold of the scalping tuft. Their fingers touched, and they seemed to speak to one another without opening their mouths. Cora let go of the hair, and took Uncas’ other hand in hers. Together, they looked out over the edge of the cliff. He tossed the gift off the edge, and they watched it tumble down beyond sight.

This scene of immeasurable tenderness and violence was silent for seemingly years. Then, the scout spoke.

“We must go immediately. The imps may be fast on our heels before we know it. Lady, can you walk?”

“Yes,” she replied plainly. “Alice, can you?”

The girl could barely talk through her crying. “Y-Yes! Oh, but Cora, I’m scared! More scared than I have been this entire time!”

She released Uncas’ hand and reached out for her sister. “Let me hold you up, Alice.”

“No! You’re covered - “

“A monster’s blood is water!” She yelled. “It doesn’t stain as man’s blood does, and I’m not afraid of it. Come over here, Alice. Let me show you how not to be afraid.”

At first, the girl clung to Heyward. However, in her undying loyalty and trust, she let go of her lover and crept to her closest protector. She trembled like an aspen. Cora opened her arms and let Alice fall onto her. She would never hit the ground so long as her sister, no, mother, was there to catch her. The blood soaked now into both dresses, but neither cared. Their hearts were pressed together at long last. It finally occurred to them that they were somehow still alive.

Cora lifted the girl’s head up to look at her, and kissed her pale forehead. “Let’s leave cowards to rot, and bring our heroes home to their wives or widows. Shall we carry our friends down the mountain?”

She nodded, crying quiet tears. The men dispersed at a wave of her tawny hand, and followed the order to bring the Delaware bodies. Victorious, they went back.


	2. Chapter 33 Redone

The sun found the Lenape, on the succeeding day, a bittersweet nation. The sounds of the battle were over, and they had fed fat their ancient grudge, and had avenged their recent quarrel with the Mengwe, by the destruction of a whole community. The black and murky atmosphere that floated around the spot where the Hurons had encamped, sufficiently announced, of itself, the fate of that wandering tribe; while hundreds of ravens, that struggled above the bleak summits of the mountains, or swept, in noisy flocks, across the wide ranges of the woods, furnished a frightful direction to the scene of the combat. In short, any eye, at all practised in the signs of a frontier warfare, might easily have traced all those unerring evidences of the ruthless results which attend an Indian vengeance.

Still, the sun rose on the Lenape a bittersweet nation. Shouts of success, lamentations, songs of triumph, humility, rejoicings, and demonstrations of grief were mingled together, and inseparable.

Widows wept and mourned, yet were comforted by the stories of their husbands’ bravery. They kissed and hugged Cora to hear that she’d brought about the vengeance they’d all wanted so badly. They braided flowers into her hair and exalted her virtues. She thanked them, but her humility was immovable. She returned their kisses and hugs. With her tattered, dirtied handkerchief, she wiped away their tears.

“Your husbands outlive their bodies. They live in their love, their stories, their children, and their nation. Cry for yourselves, but never for them. Envy them.”

The dead men were buried with a hero’s funeral. Each was adorned in all the ornaments and trappings of the Delawares, indicating him as admired and loved. Alice and the men of our group stood at a respectful distance with the rest of the crowd. Cora, however, had been absorbed into the throng of mourning women that surrounded the bodies. The Mohicans sang their interment songs and Tamenund sat, eyes closed, before the dead.

A girl, selected for the task by her rank and qualifications, commenced by modest allusions to the qualities of the deceased warriors, embellishing her expressions with those oriental images that the Indians have probably brought with them from the extremes of the other continent, and which form of themselves a link to connect the ancient histories of the two worlds. She described each man’s virtues to the highest degree. She spoke of their mothers, fathers, sisters, and brothers. She bade them tell these ancestors of the Lenape, when they met in the world of spirits, that the Delaware girls had shed tears above the grave of their children, and had called them blessed.

The most senior of the widows was looked to as to who should offer their eulogies next. She turned her dark, teary eyes to Cora. At one point in her life, the girl would have shied from this attention. But she stood still, and listened to the widow’s Lenape words as if they were English.

Hawkeye humbly translated for her, but not without his own comments. “The lady says that their men have died to protect not only Delaware honor, but the white maiden, and now that the Delawares have given their honors, you must do the same. But, Miss Munro, if I may say, it is not appropriate to bring European hymns to Indian funerals.”

Uncas heard this, and refuted this point lowly in the language of his own. The Delawares heard and understood him. Hawkeye acquiesce to his mastery on these matters, and waved a hand to Cora. “Uncas says it is good, and it is not the gift of my color to debate this subject. Sing then, and give this nation what they so desire.”

“Is it good to Tamenund too?” She asked.

The patriarch opened his eyes. He knew what she had asked. He, too, waved a hand of granted permission. His dark, wrinkled face even betrayed a sense of peace to see the mourners cast away the pride of color and take up pure respect for their fellow man.

Cora looked to David Gamut, and spoke to him. “Will you help me send these souls away, dear singing master?”

He stepped forward, one foot in pride and one in humility. With the pitch pipe in his left hand and hymnal in his right, he announced “It would be my honor.”

She told him the name of the song she wanted, and he turned to the page. After he played the starting note, the lady took a few beats before singing. She had gotten lost in the men’s faces. Empty eyed and still as stone. Where had they gone?

_ Abide with me, fast falls the eventide. _ __  
__ _ The darkness deepens, Lord, with me, abide. _ __  
__ _ When other helpers fail and comforts flee, _ __  
__ _ Help of the helpless, Lord, _ _  
_ __ __ Abide with me

The Delaware girls didn’t know the language in which Cora sang, but this mattered not. Her heart conveyed to them every meaning that her tongue did. They wiped hot tears from their cheeks. The lady passed each birchbark coffin and traced the rim with her finger. These men died protecting her, and all she could give them in return was a song. Her soul swore then and there that when she died, she’d thank them each in person.

__ _ Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day _ __  
__ _ Earth’s joys grow dim, it’s glories pass away _ __  
__ _ Change and decay in all around I see _ __  
__ _ O thou who changest not, _ _  
_ __ __ Abide with me.

She could hear Alice crying, holding onto their father. She was always an empathetic girl, and wouldn’t be dry-eyed at even a stranger’s funeral. As for the Colonel, his tears were deep within him, saved for another time, as soldiers often do. He was of the same mind as Cora. He couldn’t cry for them, since he was sure they went somewhere better than where they stood. He couldn’t cry for himself either, since he never knew them. All he wanted to do was give his unending thanks for their sacrifice.

George Munro himself knew he wasn’t young, and someday sooner than later his daughters would bury him in a similar fashion. He felt a spectator to the event, rather than a participant. A ghost. Every worst possible fear to feel was now familiar to him, and so death was petty.

_ I fear no foe with thee at hand to bless _ __  
__ _ Ills have no weight and tears no bitterness _ __  
__ _ Where is death’s sting? Where, grave, thy victory? _ __  
__ _ I triumph still if thou _ _  
_ __ __ Abide with me.

Hawkeye agreed with the philosophy of this verse. He never thought himself a man who feared dying. He’d seen many burials before. Worse yet, he’d seen many men rot, uncovered. This funeral didn’t stir any worry in him. Yet, somehow, as he looked at the misery in the widows’ faces, a twinge of concern burned in him. When he was to die, Uncas would have to bury him. He’d mourn him. And he’d be alone. Perhaps he should stop being so reckless with his own safety.

_ Hold thou thy cross before my closing eyes _ __  
__ _ Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies _ __  
__ _ Heav’ns morning breaks, and earth’s vain shadows flee _ __  
__ _ In life, in death, O Lord,  _ _  
_ __ __ Abide with me.

    The trees of the forest sustained the last note long after she and Gamut ran out of breath. Then, when the ringing left the land at last, Cora suddenly broke out in tears. Her body shook with want of air, which her lungs couldn’t seem to draw in. The Delaware girls came to her side and held her. 

    “Why does the Yengee cry?” Asked the eldest widow.

    Voice raised over the sounds of her sorrow, Cora replied “For us. I for poor, poor us. Left behind by the people we love, and damned to do the same to the rest!” She spotted Tamenund through her tears, and directed her words to him. “Tell us, Patriarch, something that might comfort us. You have one eye on this world and one in the next. Spare us a drop of your wisdom, if we’re worthy.”

    The tribe turned their attention to the ancient man. He heard her, and waited before answering, as was his peoples’ custom. Then, amid the world’s anticipation, he slowly parted his lips and began to speak with that tired, tired voice, in Delaware. Hawkeye translated his exact words for her, giving no extraneous interpretation to the prophet’s declaration.

    “Woman, your fathers came here from over the horizon. You may look to the east, but you will not see those of your color. Walk the Earth and sail the sea out beyond that way, and you will find them, and no longer see the Delaware. Return, and Europe disappears. Still, do we not live?”

His wisdom permeated their brains for some time before a single body moved. Cora had stopped crying. She nodded, and understood his meaning. Gently walking away from the Delaware girls, she stood before the chief and kneeled. He watched, awaiting her next move. She extended a hand to him in sheer reverence. Like a God granting her prayers, he slowly took it in his. The sight was truly painting-worthy. Her hand - the color of cane sugar, young, and beautiful - in his - archaic, tanned, and deeply wrinkled.

    Cora raised the relic to her lips and kissed it. The slightest smile crossed his face.

    “Chief Tamenund, just yesterday, you gave me over to the evil Huron. But today, I say this for all to hear: If there ever comes a day when my father’s king quarrels with the Delaware, I will send my sons to bow before your wigwam.”

    The gravity of this statement hit every English speaker like a tree trunk. The Patriarch himself, though not confident in his English tongue, understood her words. He nodded, and the two simultaneously released hands.

    Tamenund lifted his voice to disperse the multitude.

    "It is enough," he said. "Go, children of the Lenape, the mercy of the Manitou is not done. Why should Tamenund stay? We are masters of the earth, and the time of the evil has not yet come. My day has been too long. In the morning I saw the sons of Unamis happy and strong; and before the night has come, have I lived to see the next warrior of the wise race of the Mohicans."

 


End file.
